The Color Red
by lostsoul512
Summary: You couldn't save someone if they loved their madness. Oneshot.


**A/N: I never meant for this story to happen. I was at the grocery store and all of a sudden this one line just kept repeating in my mind, and this chaotic little oneshot was born. I own nothing, of course. Let me know what you think.**

_Red had always been her color. _

She had been wearing red the first time they'd met. It was mid-afternoon and the sun was shining but the sun never did quite make it into the cold walls of that haunted asylum. She was young and innocent and _sofuckingnaive_, and he had been there and he had seen her and immediately he had known.

(She would belong to him.)

She had been wearing red during their first session. Red lipstick, the kind that drew all of his attention straight to her mouth. He supposed it was so he would really listen to what she was saying, her so called therapeutic advice. But he wasn't listening at all, just imagining how it might feel to feel those lips against his own, or maybe how they might look wrapped around the barrel of a gun. She was trying to heal him, cure him, whatthefuckever she wanted to call it. But there was no helping him. There was no saving him.

(You couldn't save someone if they loved their madness.)

She had been wearing red again the day he finally made his move. He had known for some time that he had her in his trap, his perfectly laid out trap. He could see it in the way her big blue eyes watched him, and she was still so innocent and naïve, but not in the same way as before. There was a madness in her eyes now too, and she loved her madness and so no one could save her. And she would lean forward when he was talking, like she was literally hanging on his words, hanging on for dear life. And life was dear to her, wasn't it?

(But life is never as dear to you as it once you know the face of death.)

She had been wearing red, and he had been wearing that malicious smile, and she had this look of fear in her eyes which only made him smile more. She was shrinking back into her chair _funny, hahah, because she was a shrink_ and he was on his feet, closing the distance between them. And he stopped only when he stood directly in front of her, leaning in until there were but mere inches between their mouths. Her lips were parted slightly so that he could feel her tiny little breaths upon his flesh. When he kissed her, it was rough, hard, angry. Somehow it was soft, too. Beautiful. She was beautiful, really, and he had this overwhelming urge to destroy her. Rip her skin right from her bones until she was just this bloodyfuckingmess on the floor.

(Red had always been her color.)

She had been wearing red when she had made the mistake of falling in love with him. Red, when she made the even bigger mistake of freeing him from the cold walls inside that haunted asylum. Red, when she had allowed him to pull her down into his bed and make love to her upon the tangled, knotted sheets. Red, when she had told him that she loved him. Red, when he had made the biggest mistake of all, telling her that he loved her too.

(Loving someone was always a mistake.)

She had been wearing red when she came into his study that day. He had been pouring over notes and schemes and thoughts _alwaysaboutBatman_. She was still young, but no longer innocent or naïve. He had taken those things from her, ripped them right out of her beating little heart. So in a way he had gotten his wish after all. He had gotten to destroy her. She came in close, wrapped her arms around his neck, but he shoved her away roughly. He was having a bad day, and he was going to take it out on her again.

(She knew it as soon as she saw the way he looked at her.)

She was wearing red now, laying on the floor in a bruised and crumbled mess. She was crying, too, but no amount of crying could ever rid her body of the pain. She was trapped, she was his prisoner, and her madness made her love it. She didn't even mind the blood that coated her skin, spilling even still from open wounds. Pooling around her and drying onto her clothes, onto her pale fresh. From his desk, he watched her. She looked so helplessweakpathetic. He gave no indication of helping her.

Anyway, she didn't really want to be saved, and they both knew it. You couldn't save someone if they loved their madness. No, he would leave her there to suffer. At least for a little while, leave her there covered in red.

_After all,_ _red had always been her color. _


End file.
